In Lothlorien
by StarsAreMassive
Summary: After the loss of Gandalf, the fellowship attempt to recover under the protection of the Golden Wood. For some, rest comes harder than others.


He'd heard stories as a dwarflet. Eyes colder than the darkest depths. Lips forever sneering, a brow that only ever expressed displeasure and a haughty, uncompassionate creature who would not deign to see you from his lofty stare. No, Gimli son of Gloin had been taught nothing good of the elvenking and had come to hate him, never mind that he had never seen him with his own eyes.

But then his son had come along and ruined the happy simplicity that came with dwarves hating elves. It had at first been easy to dismiss the Prince as a stone from the same rock, proud and superior with an utter disdain for 'lowly' dwarves. But then, as they had quested on, Legolas Greenleaf of the Woodland realm had begun to chip away at some of Gimli's assumptions.

The first time, unbeknownst to the elf he had made Gimli laugh. At their camp in Hollin Aragorn and the lad had been quibbling, and in that dry, even way of his Legolas had given the future King of Men a fine summary of all his faults. Luckily, the dwarf had been able to turn his laughter into a hacking cough, muffled by his beard before anyone could suspect.

The second time, Legolas had showed compassion. In Moria, Gimli had bristled at the elf's discomfiture, taking it as a slight against his kin. But it was an elven hand that had gripped his shoulder as he knelt before Balin.

The third time, but hours later, Gimli had seen the strangest sense of grief. Keen but uncomprehending, like a bairn who did not know what death truly was, but knew enough to feel that someone they loved had gone, and they were not coming back.

It was Lothlorien though that changed it all.

Somehow, though he couldn't fathom it, the rest of the company bar himself and the elf who had went wandering again, had managed to find some sleep. As peaceful as this place was, Gimli could not find it in himself to drop off and leave the fellowship unguarded.

He had let his mind drift to Gandalf – when he would visit his father and get drunk on Dwarvish ale; the pouch of leaf he had pinched off old Bombur; the pipe he had gifted Gimli on his 30th birthday that lay in the downy grass next to his pillow…

He picked it up with his calloused hands and smiled weakly at it.

"Did Mithrandir give it to you?"

Gimli nearly died of fright. " _Blasted elf_!" he hissed. "Warn a folk you're there before sneaking up on them like that! Scaring sensible dwarves to death!" He harrumphed and huffed trying to compose himself, his heart hammering like an anvil.

And then he had said something Gimli had not expected.

"I am sorry."

The elf stepped closer and knelt before him, giving Gimli room to move away if he wished to. Yet, there he stayed and returned to fumbling with his pipe. "Off with your own kind again, were you?" He'd made it seem like an accusation. He hadn't meant to.

"Yes," the elf said softly, looking to the ground. Lithe fingers played together absently.

"Well…at least someone can find solace in this place."

In one languid movement Legolas was sitting next to him.

"I think," he paused, blue gaze still fixed on the ground at his feet and long legs splayed out before him. "I think I am looking for something that cannot be found here, Master Gimli."

He was curious. Not too proud to admit that. "Oh? And what could the greatest of elf-realms be without?"

Legolas ghosted half a smile. "Lothlorien is great indeed, though I should never choose it before my own home, even dark as it has been of late. I speak of understanding, of course."

Gimli nearly scoffed. "And I though your kin here were so wise?"

Legolas paused again and drew one knee up to rest his chin upon. Gimli noticed for the first time that his braids were gone. A long finger tacked a sheath of hair behind a pointed ear so as not to obscure his face. On the other side, it fell like a golden curtain.

"With the exception of the Lord and Lady," the elf began slowly. "Many here, they are so…untouched. They do not understand. I do not think they can. How many here do you think have lost someone they have loved to Mandos?"

And Gimli – he understood. How could you grieve with someone who was innocent to grief and death? In this at least he found that he had more in common with this elvish princeling that the elf had with his own kin.

"Aye," he said at length. "Aye, he did make it for me." Gimli held the pipe aloft in his fingers. Legolas did not lift his head but his eyes followed.

"I'd turned thirty years, and he'd arrived in the wee hours of the morning. After me mam and da's, it was the first gift I received. And my favourite. These," he showed Legolas the runes carved into the stem, " _mean_ something to my family. They're our traits, you see. Our history, if you like. Strength. Cleverness. Loyalty. It's what our blood is known for. And, well, it was just nice to think he'd taken the time to do that for me." His voice was thick now, and Legolas' eyes were set upon his face, studying carefully, his gaze open and honest. He spoke with that soft voice again.

"Mithrandir made a gift to me too, once. I do not have it with me but…it was for my begetting day, on my fiftieth _yen_. It was nothing extraordinary, at least not to anyone else. But I will treasure it always.

"What was it?"

"An old sketch he had wrought on this, awful, dog-eared piece of parchment." His nose crinkled at the memory. "But the colours were beautiful, and the detail so precise." Legolas smiled softly. "It was my naneth. In Imladris with me when I was an elfling. She was laughing at me – I was running in circles around her as fast as I could."

"And you had no other picture of your…mother?" He wasn't entirely sure what 'naneth' meant but it seemed like a safe guess.

"There were lots of paintings," Legolas nodded. "But ada does not display them often. The grief was always too near for him. It always will be."

That, those words, right then, presented Gimli with an image he wasn't quite prepared for. A grieving elf-king with a son and no wife to help raise him.

"Your mother, she di- you, lost her when you were at your majority?"

Golden hair shook. " _Baw_. I was quite young. But six _yen_."

The fierce King Thranduil had raised his elf before him, who had made him laugh, comforted him and now grieved with him, who understood him, all alone.

"What sort of elf is he?"

If Legolas had been expecting any question, it hadn't been that. His brow creased his eyes widened and lips parted. "My _ada_?"

Gimli nodded, wondering into his beard why he had asked that?

"I shall tell you of mine if you tell me of yours."

If Gimli could have laughed on such a day as that one, he would have laughed then.

"Da's an old battle axe, if truth be told," he smiled and Legolas smiled with him. "Sharp as flint, mind you. I used to try and sneak away when I was a laddie – visit the smithy before I was old enough, climb down the wrong mine shafts – but I'd barely get two steps away before he was on me, dragging me back to me mam by the beard. But he's a good dwarf. I've always wanted to be just like him."

Legolas snuffed – a gentle sound with sweet humour. "And here you are, following a hobbit with a magic ring."

"Aye, here I am. I hope to do him proud."

"I'm sure you already have. I do not doubt my own _ada_ will be furious."

Gimli was surprised to hear Legolas admit so openly what all dwarves suspected of the elven king. "He has a temper, then?"

Legolas smiled softly and threw his head back, leant it against the trunk of their tree. " _Ai_ , yes. It is a thing to behold when it breaks. I do not envy the messenger who returned to our home to bear him the news of Lord Elrond's council."

"He would disagree with our course?"

" _Man?_ No, of course not. Ada's _ruith_ that the ring survived the first War was second only to his grief at the losses of our people. He will be glad that it is finally being done. He will not be so glad, however, that _I_ am the elf sent with the company."

Understanding dawned on Gimli's face. "He would want you home."

" _Mal._ He would. I do not expect him to forgive Lord Elrond for this for some time."

"Because he is afraid for you."

Legolas finally tuned to look at him, face to face. Surprise and sadness lay behind those elvish eyes of his, and Gimli let himself feel a small flicker of shame. "Yes. He is afraid."

"Well," he said gruff and quiet and mumbling. "Maybe he isn't as foolish as some dwarves would have us believe." Legolas huffed next to him. "What else is he?"

"Likely, everything your father, uncles, cousins, or any other dwarf told you. He is fierce and unyielding. He is so often unforgiving. He is everything our Kingdom needs in the encroaching darkness. Without him, the light would have succumbed in the Great Wood long ago."

Then a slender finger slid into Gimli's line of vision, where it lay firmly fixed on his pipe, and began to trace the delicate runes at the very tip top of the beautiful carving.

"But he is also the very best elf I have ever known. He is honest and true. He healed my scrapes when I was an elfling and used to sneak away from his advisors to take me to play in the river. He taught me to be strong, to be kind. But mostly, he always made sure that, no matter how dark the night, I could smile, and laugh, and make merry with our people."

And Gimli let himself clasp that hand – briefly – he was so overcome with memories of his own father.

"I should very much like for you to meet him. After all things."

"Aye," he rumbled through a watery smile, "and perhaps there's a thing or two you can teach my kin about the elves of the Wood."


End file.
